Of Concussions and Army Doctors
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: It is never a good idea to kidnap someone in order to get what you want. But to kidnap the British government himself, together with his little brother, and hurt said brother in the process? Definitely even less beneficial. And don't forget about a certain former army doctor, slowly starting to worry about his flatmate. - Two-shot.
1. Concussion

I don't own any characters.

But I absolutely adore brotherly love! Be prepared, then.

* * *

**Of Concussions and Army Doctors**

Part 1. Concussion

* * *

"Drop the weapon, or I will kill him."

Being pointed at with a loaded revolver did not belong to the things Mycroft Holmes was used to. Being threatened, however, was quite common for him, although he normally preferred more subtle ways of intimidation.

And, last but not least, apparently, worrying about his brother was something he had spent his entire life with.

But for Mycroft Holmes it was unacceptable that someone threatened his brother in order to make him comply.

"Looks like you've got the wrong bait," his brother said in a low voice, head twisted backwards, a knife held to his throat, already cutting the skin. Increase pressure, move hand in sliding motion, cut, wait – and Mycroft would not have a brother any more.

This, he decided, was unacceptable, too.

Slowly, he lowered his right hand holding his own Browning, but not without shooting his brother a stern look.

"Drop it!"

If it had not been for the knife so close to his brother's carotid artery, Mycroft would have turned around and left. He had indeed more important things to do than wasting time on three imbeciles who obviously tried to abduct him.

Caring is not an advantage.

He had always known that caring could once be his downfall. So be it, he decided when he let go of the weapon. They had not yet met him if they assumed he was to be defeated so easily. And, of course, they did not yet know which price they were going to pay – no-one, Mycroft had established long ago, threatened his brother.

As soon as his Browning hit the ground, he lifted his gaze to the kidnapper's face. His hand, the one holding the knife to Sherlock's throat, was trembling ever so slightly, causing more blood to trickle down his brother's skin.

"So," Mycroft began. "You do have a weapon now, I do not. I daresay we're equal now, don't you think so? What are you intending to do now? Kill us?"

One of the three – once married, but recently divorced, alcoholic, momentarily unemployed, therefore trying to commit a crime, soon to be diagnosed with brain cancer, easily to be seen by the way he held his head, quite out of the perpendicular when judging by his throat and neck – smiled, showing unhealthily yellow teeth. Heavy smoker, but quit five months ago. Sunk into depression, divorce, unemployment… Mycroft barely managed to suppress a sigh.

"No," the man said. "Now we're going to leave, and you're going to come with us."

"Am I," he replied, remaining unimpressed, but noticing Sherlock's rapid blinking nonetheless. As soon as the knife was removed from his brother's throat, they were going to end this pitiful attempt of abduction.

"Oh yes, you will," smiled the man. And then, to be anticipated only because of a small gesture, happened what Mycroft Holmes had never foreseen to happen.

The third man, unarmed except for Mycroft's umbrella he had managed to get hold of in the chaos, used exactly this umbrella to deal a blow to Sherlock's head, his temple, powerful enough to cause his brother to stumble and blood to colour his skin once more – and collapse to the ground without another word.

"No more clever plans," the former smoker announced. "We'll take him with us, and you will follow us and do what we tell you. And get your hands up in the air!"

Slowly raising his hands above his head, Mycroft knew he was beaten. Beaten because he himself had failed to follow one of his most often quoted advices. Because caring was not an advantage, and, nonetheless, he could not help it.

He allowed himself to be handcuffed by one of the men while the other two roughly tied his unconscious brother's hands behind his back and then started dragging his limp form towards a nearby parked truck.

Caring would be his only failure today, Mycroft Holmes determined in this very moment.

* * *

Half an hour and three minutes later, after driving around uselessly, probably in order to fool Mycroft – how utterly stupid and utterly futile – the van he and his brother had been loaded into came to a halt, a definite one. The man sitting opposite of Mycroft, still pointing the gun at him, began to grin.

"Now you don't know where we've brought you, do you," he mumbled, triumphantly.

Stupid. For assailants who wanted to abduct him, they apparently did not know in fact with whom they were dealing. Yes, his hands might be tied together, he might not have seen anything whilst they were driving – but he knew exactly where they were.

Abandoned factory, Southwark, no security cameras near. Something he would have to fix once he was back in the office, once he had dealt with these _kidnappers_.

They were, however, clever enough to not let him out of their sight, and to keep aiming a gun at him. And they had been clever enough to use Sherlock to their advantage – clever for the moment, but of course this cleverness would never get them anywhere.

The thug was waving with the gun, obviously trying to tell Mycroft to get out of the back of the van, to move and walk inside the factory. His eyes flickering to his still motionless brother, he obeyed.

He was led into an empty room, quite clearly predestined for holding prisoners. The gun was pressed into his spine – they were apparently fearing him, but they were not fearing him enough. Not since the very moment they had dared to lay a finger on his brother.

Sherlock was dragged to the same room, only being illuminated by a bit of sunlight falling through a tiny window, much too small to escape, and probably without an opening mechanism.

"Move," the thug told him, and Mycroft took a few more steps forward, feeling the thug retreating through the door to the room. Metal. Inches thick. Impossible to break or to escape when being locked inside.

The other two kidnappers simply let Sherlock fall to the floor, not softly, and Mycroft almost flinched at the sight of his brother's head making harsh contact with the concrete – again.

The three men laughed. "We'll let you sit here for a while, and then we will take care of you. Or of your brother, depends on how… openly you answer our questions."

Hm. Clearly. How unimaginative. Torturing him or torturing Sherlock, in order to extract certain information. Information they would not get from Mycroft, not by threatening his life. Threatening Sherlock's was something he decided not to think about yet.

It was not too easy to lower himself to his knees with his hands cuffed, at least not behind his back. It was even more difficult to carefully turn Sherlock around, blood dried on his temple and in his dark hair. Blow to the head, loss of consciousness. Most likely concussion. Unconsciousness lasting more than an hour. Severe concussion. Possibility of internal bleeding, brain swelling, serious brain damage. Might result in coma, and, untreated, death. Conclusion: Treat immediately. Hospital. Problem: option not available. Focus on checking vital signs. Keep victim breathing, ABC medicine. Hindrance: handcuffs.

"Sherlock." Worth a try. Futile, however.

A short moment of placing his fingers beneath Sherlock's nose assured him his brother was still breathing. Not dead, then. Pressing two fingers against his neck did the same.

Reassuring, in fact. At least, it should be. Nonetheless, Mycroft found himself worrying about his brother. As always.

"Sherlock," he tried again, tapping his brother's face lightly. Gently, almost.

No reaction. Of course – only his little brother could manage to be knocked unconscious with an umbrella, Mycroft's umbrella, and then remain out of it for more than an hour. And all of that only because some thugs wanted to abduct Mycroft, in order to make him talk.

Sherlock's absolute motionlessness bothered him more than he would ever have admitted. Blows to the head were never beneficial, even less in the situation they were in right now.

Mycroft got up again, determinedly walking to the door – and knocking, loudly.

"In fact you are not aware," he shouted, "one of your hostages is injured. And if anything else happens to him, I will never answer a single one of your questions, but you will wish that you had once made a different decision. So?"

Not that he expected them to send a doctor – not even those thugs could be so simple-minded. But his angry and yet calm words had left an impression – the door was being unlocked again, one of the thugs peered inside – the smoker -, glancing at Sherlock, and then starting to uncuff Mycroft's hands, shutting the door as fast as possible again.

Mycroft quickly removed the handcuffs and then crouched down again next to his still unconscious brother. When he slapped Sherlock's face this time, maybe a little bit more urgent than before, his brother's eyelids started to flutter ever so slightly.

Mycroft firmly held on to his brother's face. "Sherlock?" he asked, hoping for an answer.

"Hm," was all he got, but it was definitely more than a few minutes ago. Deliberately, Mycroft tried to ignore both the lump in his throat and the weight that had been taken off his chest at this tiny remark. His brother was alive, and not comatose. Not yet, at least. Depending on the next few hours and the severity of the head injury.

"Open your eyes, Sherlock," he ordered, knowing that brotherly orders had made Sherlock comply when he was a little boy – and had made him utter a snarky reply during his adulthood.

His brother's eyelids kept fluttering, but his eyes would not open. Mycroft got none of the above.

The worry came back as strongly as it had been before. "Sherlock, now," he repeated, and this time, almost miraculously, it worked. Distant eyes, completely out of focus, stared – not at him, not really, rather at something behind him. Concussion.

The paleness of his brother's face made Mycroft feel uneasy, so very uneasy. Deathly pale, as the metaphor went.

"Talk to me," he commanded while not letting go of his brother's face. "Say something. Sherlock."

"The molecular… weight… of… ah…," the reply ended in a moan when Mycroft accidentally touched the head wound.

"Good," he encouraged his brother. "Do you remember where we are? Who you are?" Stupid questions, really. But necessary if he wanted to have any data on how serious his brother's head injury was.

"John…," came the muffled reply, and Sherlock's eyes slipped close again.

Not good.

Search mind palace. Keep concussion victims awake? Not necessarily, but doing so made it easier to check their mental state.

"What about John?" Mycroft urged while slapping his brother again. "Tell me about your army doctor."

Another moan escaped Sherlock before a shudder went through his entire body. Mycroft barely managed to turn him on his side before his brother started retching, violently so.

Nausea. Another symptom of concussion.

While holding his brother in a somewhat weird position, Mycroft quickly went through the possibilities they had left.

Wait. Dangerous for Sherlock. Might take too long.

Act. Not in the physical condition to overpower four or more thugs, not without his umbrella. Dangerous for Sherlock.

Not too many, apparently.

Sherlock was panting heavily, his eyes closed again, his face ashen as Mycroft placed him on his right side, in order to avoid the sick on the floor.

"Try to tell me before you vomit again," Mycroft demanded, not taking his eyes from his brother.

Whose hands were still tied behind his back.

Undo that.

It took Mycroft a few moments, but then he had the rope untangled and took hold of Sherlock's left hand.

"Are you still awake?" he asked, looking directly at his brother. "Sherlock!"

No reaction.

Mycroft cursed under his breath and carefully lifted his brother's upper body so that his head rested against Mycroft's chest. "Sherlock!" he demanded again. "Open your eyes, now."

Slapping then, again. Difficult in his position, but in the very moment, Mycroft felt not in the least inclined to let go off his brother.

He managed it. "Sherlock," he urged once more. "Wake up, brother mine. Do what I say, just one time in your life."

Oh. Emotional distress, apparently. Rambling. Remain calm. Calm.

Another slap, more powerful. Due to increase Sherlock's headache.

His brother's head was still lolling limply, but for the second time, his eyelids were fluttering slightly, another moan escaping his lips.

Severe concussion. Disorientation.

"Yes, open your eyes. Good. Very good. Now tell me: why are we here? Do you remember anything?"

His shielding mechanism was failing, Sherlock was breaking it, once more.

"John…," his brother stammered again, but this time, his eyes remained open.

Mycroft carefully turned his brother's head a tiny bit so that he could study his eyes. Though difficult to tell in the dim light of the room, dilated. Not entirely equally so, it seemed to Mycroft.

"John… where's John…," Sherlock slurred, quite obviously not coherent. And of course thinking of his flatmate first.

What to do now?

"You tell me," he settled on a reply. "Where do you and John live?"

"22…" A cough interrupted Sherlock which quickly turned into another episode of vomiting. Once again, Mycroft found himself holding his brother, his shaking brother, to the side, supporting his limp neck and trying not to be hit by some of the sick.

Sherlock's breathing sounded shallow and laboured once he had finished, and Mycroft heaved his upper body up again, his brother's head still kept sideways in order for him not to choke.

"Mycr…," Sherlock panted, "why… what…"

Searching for his brother's pulsepoint on his throat with one hand, Mycroft heard himself answering: "It's alright, Sherlock. Stay calm. Do you remember what happened?"

Ah, there. Too fast, at about 120 beats per minute. Blood pressure most likely down. Shivering.

"Mmh," Sherlock muttered barely audibly.

Not remembering, then. Common in concussions, as Mycroft's mind was able to recall.

"Talk to me," he encouraged his brother while gently laying him down again.

"Mrs Hudson's… made… biscuits…," Sherlock mumbled, his eyes dangerously close to falling shut again.

Quickly, Mycroft removed his suit jacket, commanding his body not to notice the cold.

Carefully avoiding the sick on the floor, he grabbed his brother's left arm, limp in his grip. "Can you get up?" Probably not, Mycroft was able to answer his own question in the same second as he watched his brother coughing again.

Coughing and then vomiting.

Mycroft just managed it in time to shove his brother to his side, heaving up nothing but bile.

His jacket hanging from his arm, he hoisted his brother's body up a bit and dragged him a few steps sideways. A movement which caused Sherlock to moan and press his eyes shut.

"Mycr…," he mumbled, but didn't complete the name.

Quickly, Mycroft kneeled down again, almost gently placing his jacket around his brother's shoulders and then lifted his body up again, resting Sherlock's head against his right shoulder. Avoid pressure on the head injury on Sherlock's left temple.

"Biscuits…," Sherlock slurred. "Case… John… it was the… mother… Bubble… bath…"

Bubble bath? Suddenly, Mycroft felt something akin to relief about the fact that his brother had detected the camera he had had installed at 221B Baker Street. Only God knew what he would have seen.

"Clothes… changing… the sister… John…" Sherlock kept muttering, his head lolling.

Oh. Obviously necessary to hurry. Well then.


	2. Army Doctor

I don't own all those characters…

Wow - thank you for all your support and positive feeback! Really, thank you! and now I hope I'm not going to disappoint anyone with what's to follow...

Oh, and this one will contain John, of course.

* * *

**Of Concussions and Army Doctors**

Part 2. Army Doctors

* * *

John had been panicked since the moment he had realised that something must have happened to Sherlock.

While it was quite common for his sometimes insensitive flatmate to dump John or to completely miss anything John told him, it was highly unusual for Sherlock to not answer his phone or to not react to a text. Or rather, to a dozen texts sent within the ten minutes in which John had started to worry.

Lestrade had known nothing, nothing about a case, nothing about a kidnapping. When John had resumed to call Mycroft and Sherlock's older brother did not answer his phone either, he knew that something was seriously wrong.

Sherlock had intended to meet his brother, a few hours ago, and now none of them was answering his phone. A bit not good. Something was definitely and absolutely _wrong_.

His mobile rang just in time to stop him from dialling Lestrade's number for the forth time that day, wanting to know if there were any news. News on Sherlock whom John had reported to be missing earlier.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Doctor Watson," an eloquent voice said on the other end of the line. "A car will be at your flat in five minutes. Do not ask question. Get into the car."

John almost dropped the phone. "What? What's going on? Who is that?"

But the call had already been ended.

Simply assuming that this was Mycroft's doing or at least one of his employees, John did as he was told, his gun securely tucked under his belt, his mobile in his hand.

On the backseat, he was greeted by a familiar face.

"Anthea," he remembered her name.

She gave him a polite smile, her eyes never leaving the screen of her blackberry.

"Where I am going? What is that? Is this Mycroft's doing?" he bombarded her with questions as the black car headed for the main road.

"Come on, tell me! Where's Sherlock? Is he alright?"

Finally, he indeed managed to trigger a reaction. A sigh. "We're driving to Southwark where we'll meet a few dangerous people and will hopefully find your flatmate again."

Realising that this was all the information he was going to get, John nervously started tapping his fingertips onto the leather seat. Not even trying to understand what was happening, he just wanted to get Sherlock back.

* * *

John's nervousness increased with each minute that passed while they were driving with a speed far higher than permitted by speed limits, reaching its climax when the sleek car came to a stop in front of an old and empty looking building, four other equally posh cars already being parked in front of it.

"Stay here," Anthea ordered, still typing on her blackberry.

John didn't even think about it. Pulling his gun free, he had left the car before Mycroft's PA or whatever she was could utter another syllable.

How could he sit there and wait if Sherlock was in danger? Might be in danger?

The ground before him was clear, the long corridor he was running along. A man in a suit, but nonetheless armed with one handgun and a MG gestured him the correct way.

John was out of breath when he finally reached a room where four men were lying on the floor, their hands already neatly tied together behind their backs, three of them knocked out.

"Where's your boss?" John asked one of the suited men guarding them.

"Next room," was the answer.

Next room. Next room with a probably thick door where another suited man and another thug were wrestling with each other, it being clear who would have the upper hand.

John watched the suit knock the thug unconscious with a precise blow to the neck and in the same instant noticed the umbrella leaning against the wall. Mycroft's umbrella.

Sherlock had to be there.

"Where's the key!" he yelled at the suited man who promptly showed him what he had requested and immediately, after having made sure that his opponent was truly out of it for a while, started unlocking the door.

John was the first to storm inside, his gun clutched firmly in his hands, but stopped dead in his tracks.

Later, he could never tell what had been the more frightening sight in that moment: The image of Sherlock, his head bloodied and face pale, leaning seemingly unconscious against his brother, or the image of Mycroft Holmes, the British government himself, sitting on the dirty floor of some filthy room, without his suit jacket that was draped across Sherlock's shoulders, holding his limp brother in his arms.

"Ah, John," were Mycroft's first words. "Finally. I am under the impression that my brother might need you."

* * *

Minutes later, John was inspecting Sherlock's head wound, a nasty gash caused by the umbrella, according to Mycroft.

"He vomited, you said?" he asked Mycroft while placing Sherlock, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath, on his right side, in recovery position.

"Repeatedly," Mycroft remarked, his voice an odd mixture between worried and strangely amused.

"John…," Sherlock slurred only seconds later.

John, carefully keeping his face plain, patted him softly on the shoulder. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. Try to stay awake, if you can, you hear me?"

"Sir," one of the suited men approached Mycroft. "Would you prefer the subjects to be eliminated immediately?"

Mycroft straightened his tie. "No. Take them to basement 2."

"John…," Sherlock mumbled again, rolling onto his back and gagging at the same time.

"Oh, no, no, no, Sherlock, don't," John breathed and pushed him back – right in time before Sherlock started retching. "I see," John mumbled. "Mycroft," he addressed Sherlock's brother, not caring if he was interrupting a conversation. Mycroft had to bloody care about his brother. "He needs to go to hospital. They have to do a CT, just to be sure and rule out any brain swelling. Would you…"

Mycroft nodded shortly. "Of course, John. Six, we will need one of your cars. Tell your driver he will take Doctor Watson here and my brother to the nearest hospital. Now."

"Yes, sir," the man nodded and left.

"Lestrade… the case… Miller… John… Mycroft…," Sherlock muttered unintelligibly, his eyelids fluttering.

For a moment, John thought Mycroft would bend down and stroke his brother's hair. "Take care of my brother, John," he said instead. "I trust to be informed as soon as you have got any news."

* * *

Four hours later, John found himself on the backseat of the same black car that had taken Sherlock and him to the nearest hospital, this time on their way back to 221B.

One of Mycroft's suit-clothed employees had helped him drag Sherlock to one of the waiting cars and place him on the backseat, his head lolling against John's shoulder. John had been worried about Sherlock being so incoherent, about him having been unconscious for more than half an hour after the blow to the temple, and had urged the driver to go faster - which he did.

Severe concussion, at least, John had assumed, and had found himself praying silently for Sherlock's brilliant brain to have remained unscathed.

Two CT scans at the hospital had relieved John – concussion, yes, but no brain swelling or any bleeding. Good. Which meant that Sherlock was finally allowed to sleep.

He had nodded off, in fact, exhausted, in a hospital bed, clad in a hospital gown. Only to wake two hours later, still confused, calling John's name, but adamantly demanding to go home.

And John, seeing the somewhat lost look in Sherlock's eyes, had agreed and discharged his incoherent and concussed flatmate from hospital, without even knowing what had originally happened.

The black car had still been waiting, the driver ready to take them home.

And now John was in the car again, with Sherlock having fallen asleep almost immediately, napping on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock, wake up," he demanded as soon as they had reached 221B. He carefully shook Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on, we're home. Wake up."

"Mhm," Sherlock simply moaned.

John got out of the car and opened the door on Sherlock's side, grabbing his arm. "Come on. Upstairs."

With the help of Mycroft's employee, but without Sherlock complying, but simply hanging limply, they got upstairs, placing Sherlock on the sofa.

"Thank you," John said breathlessly. "Ahem… thank you."

The suit man left, and John found himself confronted with a almost knocked out flatmate on the sofa, still wearing his coat and the hospital gown, together with his own trousers, shoes and scarf. Carefully, he removed the scarf, the coat and the shoes, turned Sherlock on his right side again, his back towards the wall, and covered him with one of Mrs Hudson's blankets.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled.

John rested his hand for a moment on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here."

"John… Think I don't feel too fine."

Sherlock's tone almost broke John's heart. Sherlock Holmes simply wasn't supposed to sound that… lost.

His eyes grazing the neat white plaster on Sherlock's left temple and the one on his throat, covering a small cut, he awkwardly patted Sherlock's shoulder. "I know," he said. "Sleep. It will get better."

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock's eyes fully closed, and a few minutes later his breathing had evened out.

It was going to be a long night, John thought with a sigh. Since Sherlock was likely to vomit again, he was not intending to leave his friend's side. Not ever.

* * *

Mycroft had been quite surprised, as he had to admit, about the amount of relief he had felt when John had called him from 221B to tell him that Sherlock was going to be fine, that it was just a concussion, no brain swelling. That his brother was even sleeping peacefully now.

He spent his night with studying the five thugs his MI6 men had captured, the men who had in fact been keen or stupid enough to lay hands on his brother. He had not yet decided what to do with them.

Later, he determined, and after changing into a fresh three piece suit, he sent for a car to take him to 221B Baker Street.

Upon entering – of course he had his own key to his brother's flat – he found Doctor Watson on the floor, with his back to the sofa, snoring softly. His brother, however, was lying on the sofa, in something akin to recovery position, on his right side, breathing, as Mycroft made sure. A bucket was placed next to his head. Newly cleaned, apparently, so he had vomited again. Severe concussion, as John had told him.

Mycroft took a seat in one of the two armchairs in the flat, watching both his brother and his sleeping flatmate.

Sherlock would be fine. Again. This time. Mycroft made a mental note to not leave a trace that he had been here.

Maybe he would not treat the thugs too cruelly. They had to be eliminated, yes, but the way of their end was still debatable. He had to think about it.

Suddenly, Sherlock stirred and even opened his eyes, a confused look in them. "John…," he slurred.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment.

For a long moment.

Sherlock moaned again.

"Ssh," he made, approaching his little brother and gripping one of his hands. "He's here, Sherlock, it's alright."

"Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled. "Head hurts."

Oh. Still not entirely coherent, his dear brother. Otherwise he would never utter such a remark.

Mycroft had of course spotted the pack of pain medication on the table. "Stay here. I'll get you something."

Moments later, he returned with a glass of water, handing his brother one of the pills against the headache. "Swallow it and then drink," he ordered, and to his surprise, Sherlock complied. "And now sleep."

As Mycroft resumed his position in the armchair, watching his brother and the former army doctor napping on the floor once more, he could not help but contemplate the puzzle John Watson was to him. Loyal to his brother, of course. Loyal to the point of… For once, Mycroft was lacking the appropriate word.

One day, he might have to explain to his brother's flatmate what had happened yesterday since Sherlock, concussed as he was, was highly unlikely to remember much. The initial kidnapping, maybe. But certainly not – luckily not – Mycroft babbling, rambling, being obviously worried, or Mycroft stealing one of the kidnappers' mobile in order to be able to call his faithful PA and have her organise the… rescue mission.

But then, he assumed, it was probable that he would never have to explain any of this. Not to Sherlock, too proud to ask, and neither to John, deeming anything else but Sherlock's well-being unimportant.

So be it, Mycroft decided when he made ready to leave the flat, taking the glass he had brought for Sherlock and cleaning it. Leaving no traces that he had ever been here.

Leaving no trace of caring, as he always did. For this, he had figured a long time ago, his brother now had John Watson.

* * *

Thank you for reading!


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